Death in the Clouds (Hercule Poirot 12)

‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot with dignity, ‘when I commit a murder it will not be with the arrow poison of the South American Indians.’

‘It is a bit low,’ agreed Japp. ‘But it seems to have worked.’

‘That is what gives one so furiously to think.’

‘Whoever it was must have taken the most stupendous chances. Yes, by Jove, they must. Lord, the fellow must have been an absolute lunatic. Who have we got left? Only one girl. Let’s have her in and get it over. Jane Grey—sounds like a history book.’

‘She is a pretty girl,’ said Poirot.

‘Is she, you old dog? So you weren’t asleep all the time, eh?’

‘She was pretty—and nervous,’ said Poirot.

‘Nervous, eh?’ said Japp alertly.

‘Oh, my dear friend, when a girl is nervous it usually means a young man—not crime.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose you’re right. Here she is.’

Jane answered the questions put to her clearly enough. Her name was Jane Grey and she was employed at Messrs. Antoine’s hairdressing establishment in Bruton Street. Her home address was 10 Harrogate Street, NW5. She was returning to England from Le Pinet.

‘Le Pinet—h’m!’

Further questions drew the story of the Sweep ticket.

‘Ought to be made illegal, those Irish Sweeps,’ growled Japp.

‘I think they’re marvellous,’ said Jane. ‘Haven’t you ever put half a crown on a horse?’

Japp blushed and looked confused.

The questions were resumed. Shown the blowpipe, Jane denied having seen it at any time. She did not know the deceased, but had noticed her at Le Bourget.

‘What made you notice her particularly?’

‘Because she was so frightfully ugly,’ said Jane truthfully.

Nothing else of any value was elicited from her, and she was allowed to go.

Japp fell back into contemplation of the blowpipe.

‘It beats me,’ he said. ‘The crudest detective story dodge coming out trumps! What have we got to look for now? A man who’s travelled in the part of the world this thing comes from? And where exactly does it come from? Have to get an expert on to that. It may be Malayan or South American or African.’

‘Originally, yes,’ said Poirot. ‘But if you observe closely, my friend, you will notice a microscopic piece of paper adhering to the pipe. It looks to me very much like the remains of a torn-off price ticket. I fancy that this particular specimen has journeyed from the wilds via some curio dealer’s shop. That will possibly make our search more easy. Just one little question.’

‘Ask away.’

‘You will still have that list made—the list of the passengers’ belongings?’

‘Well, it isn’t quite so vital now, but it might as well be done. You’re very set on that?’

‘Mais oui. I am puzzled, very puzzled. If I could find something to help me—’

Japp was not listening. He was examining the torn price ticket.

‘Clancy let out that he bought a blowpipe. These detective-story writers…always making the police out to be fools…and getting their procedure all wrong. Why, if I were to say the things to my super that their inspectors say to superintendents I should be thrown out of the Force tomorrow on my ear. Set of ignorant scribblers! This is just the sort of damn fool murder that a scribbler of rubbish would think he could get away with.’

Chapter 4